Toby

The mellowed cream brick house sat behind a tiny front garden, in the middle of a row of Victorian terraced houses, down a cul-de-sac. I fell in love with it straight away. Drowsy, mid-summer scent filled my senses. The wide, flag-stoned path was clear of discarded wrappers and chewing gum spots and I noticed a stretched-out tabby-cat snoozing in the road. I squeezed Kyle’s arm before we followed the estate agent through the pale-blue painted door.

    We explored the property with increasing excitement. Previous owners had cleverly reconfigured it. The kitchen-diner was at the front of the house, where it would benefit from the light of the evening sun, and looked out onto the back of the park: horse chestnut, alder and ash trees hung over its high boundary wall adding to the private feel of the area. The large sitting-room, behind the kitchen, opened out into an enclosed, sheltered rear garden with beautiful French-doors. They were, the agent confirmed, original. Though he also told us that if we bought this house, we would need to put safety glass in, especially as we had a toddler. The upstairs too was charming; it was a world away from our flat above the deli in the high street and I had no doubts I wanted this to be our family home. We left with a thrilled estate agent.

Toby danced to the French doors and pressed his palms against one of the panes of glass. He gazed into the overgrown garden.

    “Be careful, darling.” I said and led him back to his toys. I didn’t want any accidents. We’d only been in the house two days, and I knew that I would have to start looking soon at different ways to preserve the doors whilst been safety conscious. They were beautiful, and it surprised me they had lasted all these years. Vines and flowers were etched into the borders whilst the rectangular centre panes were clear and looked hand-made; tiny bubbles and ripples adding a delicious, whimsical nature to them.

    “They’s magic.” Toby said.

    “Oh yes,” I agreed with him. Although the garden looked just the place for mystical beings to live, I was looking forward to getting out there and taming the masses of ivy, flowers, and other creeping, twining, green things that swamped our sun trap and hid the crumbling brick walls.

   “He there!” Toby laughed delightedly and bounced up and down on his knees, disturbing me from my musings.

    “Who’s there?” I asked.

    “The boy.”

    “What boy?”

    “He there, he wave at me.”

    I looked through the windows, wondering if a child had somehow climbed over the wall. I couldn’t see anyone.

    Toby stared intently through the window. He nodded as if answering someone, then sang, ‘wind the bobbin’ up’. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. He finished his song and laughed. I peered out again, my eyes searching, analysing patterns - shapes - colours - hunting for pareidolia, but there was nothing to be seen. I looked down at my beautiful boy; dark, curly hair wisped out around his ears - baby curls I couldn’t bear to get cut - the crease at his wrists, the delicious chubby cheeks. I fought the urge to pick him up and smother him with kisses; who or what had he seen?

That evening, I told Kyle what had happened.

    “Lots of kids have an imaginary friend. He’s that age; he’ll grow out of it. We should get him enrolled in that play-group around the corner.”

    “But he keeps saying its magic,” I repeated, trying to get him to see how puzzling this was. “He kept waving, and a few times I had to stop him from kissing the glass.”

    “Have you found anyone who can make it safe yet?” Kyle interrupted.

    “Not yet.” I said, not wanting to admit that instead of looking up glass-doctors, I’d spent an hour online researching our house and street, looking for any tragic or unexplained child deaths in case it was a ghost that Toby was seeing.

    “It’s creepy when he laughs at nothing.” I added with a shiver.

    “Like I said, it’s his age. He’s probably learning to be imaginative.”

    The thought of our boy being an imaginative child was appealing. I decided I would stop worrying and instead nurture that side of him.

I found the box containing gardening-gloves and gardening implements my mum had bought us as a house moving gift and stood it in the kitchen: As soon as Toby went down for his nap, I was going to start cutting back some of the Ivy. I folded the last of the laundry with half an eye on Toby, as he played with his wobbly wheeled train, and half an eye on the mid-morning gardening program that was on T.V. I glanced out at the tangle of dandelions and daisies fighting for space amongst the flowering grasses and some frothy, soft-blue flowers that I didn’t know the name of. I longed to be able to sit out in the sun and enjoy the scent of roses and the peace.

    Suddenly Toby laughed and held his train up to the windows as if showing it to someone. He giggled, pointed to me, nodded, then pushed it away from him towards the door; it weaved comically and then stopped just inches away from it.

    My arms rippled with goosebumps. Those actions didn’t appear to have been sparked by imagination. Blurring my vision, I gazed out of the window, as if trying to decipher a magic-eye picture. When that didn't work, I tried relaxing my mind to drift into a trance-like state in which everything would hopefully become clear to me, but there was still nothing to be seen. Toby continued to look through the window, smiling and chattering. I just prayed the train wouldn’t start rolling backwards.

    Feeling apprehensive, I joined Toby on the floor. I sat at an angle between him and the doors, and jiggle-walked Mister Tootles, the train driver, towards him. Distracted from the window, Toby watched, waiting, a smile of anticipation on his lips.

    “What’s your name?” I asked, putting on a Cornish accent (because all steam-train drivers are Cornish in my head).

    As Mister Tootles danced across his bare toes, Toby giggled and he clapped his hands, “I’m name Toby!”

    “What’s your friend’s name?” Mister Tootles asked, and I bounced him up to Toby’s chubby knees.

    Toby’s brow furrowed. He stuck his lips out, tilted his head, and turned his hands up. “What friend?”

    “Your friend outside.” Mister Tootles said, and I jumped him onto Toby’s tummy and wriggled him around. Toby’s delicious giggle made me loose the accent. “Is he there now?” I asked.

    Toby peered around me. He laughed again and waved, then turned his attention back to the train driver.

    “Yes! He name Stevie!”

    The hair prickled on my neck. I held Mister Tootles tight to my chest. Slowly and casually, I turned my head slightly and let my eyes slide to the French doors.

    I could clearly see a reflection in one of the panes; dark, wispy baby curls, chubby arms, and a smiling face.

    Nothing magical at all!

    I breathed out a sigh of relief, smiled, and waved to the French doors.

    The reflection waved back.

    Toby didn’t.